


Parts of the Whole

by yosgay



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, World of Ruin, but with a little bit of hope tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosgay/pseuds/yosgay
Summary: Gladio's future, Ignis's present, Prompto's past—alone and scattered by the the endless night, they're all haunted by something.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	Parts of the Whole

**Author's Note:**

> this was my piece for the [cosmogony zine](https://twitter.com/cosmogonyzine), and it's incredibly dear to my little old heart
> 
> (wor is very hard for me to write because i just want everyone to be happy. but you know i just can't resist a little hope in the face of despair. love u all)

There’s not much left to hunt on Eos these days. 

Anything Gladio finds alive he’s hesitant to kill. If they survived the whole world falling to Scourge around them, it almost doesn’t seem fair.

Almost, though. They still got mouths to feed. 

Sword in one hand and flashlight in the other, Gladio’s already taken down a couple of skinny voreteeth, cleaning meat from bone by the light of the campfire. He’s managed to steer clear of the worst of the daemons, hopping from haven to haven like checkpoints laid out along the Duscaen plains. Good thing, too, because all he’s got is the blades.

Some range would come in handy to hunt from safety, but the thing is, Gladio’s never been great with guns. 

Too much patience and a light touch that he doesn’t have. A couple years back, he asked Prompto to teach him a thing or two. Figured it’d be good for them to be around each other. He still worries about Prompto, cooped up in Hammerhead like a chocobo in a pen. And if Gladio’s honest—maybe he needed a little sunshine.

He didn’t last ten minutes.

First time Prompto mentioned Noct’s name, rolling it off his tongue like ribbon, Gladio froze up around the trigger. A spike wedged its way between his shoulder blades, his whole body curling in on itself like some dead bug. And when the kid pulled out his camera, dusty old thing with half their lives on its memory—Gladio didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

But damn all six Astrals, he wishes he did.

He could barely see the shots through blurry eyes, hiding his face behind some flimsy excuse. That was the night he broke his hand. He felt the bone snap on the hard metal of his truck’s door, blood trickling down to pool in the crook of his elbow. He didn’t scream. He slumped over the flatbed and felt the pain a second, let it throb in time with his heartbeat. 

He didn’t reach for a potion until his vision started going white. 

And that cool healing light, that swirl of Noct’s magic knitting the skin in a glowing green mist—that hurt more than the punch.

The remaining potion stock is under lock and key, now. And so is Gladio’s temper.

He’s only seen Prompto once or twice since then, quick hello’s they pretend are normal. Gladio can’t stand the look on his face anymore. That desperate hope that lights his eyes, reminding him of a sun long set. The way he talks about the old days like they’ll ever be anything but old. Like there’s ever a chance of things being fixed.

Gladio wants to shake him. Wants both hands on his boney shoulders, thumbs hooked on collarbones thin as playing cards, and jerk him around until his head rolls. Until he understands.

 _They_ did this. 

He’s gone because they couldn’t stop it, and now he’s not—what if he’s not coming back?

His eyes catch on the katana next to him, laying in line with the broadswords. The blade is dull, crusted with black blood—a far cry from what it was when he fought for it. A warped and stained reflection stares back at him in the firelight, a face he barely recognizes. There’s hints of Clarus in his jaw and the wrinkles around his eyes. Those eyes that look hollow and bruised, deep circles betraying just how many nightmares he doesn’t sleep through. 

Gladio’s fist tightens around the handle. Intricate carvings bite into his palm. He lets out a roar to sound across the Duscaen plane as the sword comes down hard with all the force of his grief, a splintering shriek of metal on stone to echo his cry.

Steel separates from gold, and the sword clatters to the edge of the runes in two broken pieces.

Gilgamesh was wrong—he’s not worthy of this.

Each Shield is destined to write their bond in blood, spilled at the feet of their King. It’s in the sacred oath that Gladio’s had memorized since he could talk. Every breath he takes of this rotting air, every day he awakes after his King is gone—he spits on the graves of his ancestors. 

Gladio’s future is ash, buried with Noct in whatever grave the Astrals carried him away to. His legacy was severed with the line of Lucis.

He stares at the fire until the smoke burns his eyes, his vision blurring. 

_Gladiolus the Strong. Gladiolus the Fierce. Gladiolus, Shield to the King of Light._

He’s welcomed to every outpost with honor. He’s spoken of like he’s a legend to be revered, and it’s digging a hole through his insides like some kind of parasite.

Alone in the hills of Duscae, he’s a shell of a man. Abandoned, failed, and without hope for a future.

What will he be? What _can_ he be, and who is he now? 

And at this point, Gladio’s not even sure what the hell he’s still doing here. 

The two halves of the sword lay still on the runes, staring at him like knowing eyes in the soft blue light. 

His father always said his temper would cost him. 

The sword he fought for. The sword that proved his worth, once. Part of him is glad it’s broken, an ugly, bitter part that hisses failures in the back of his mind. But Gladio shakes his head, packing his campsite and banishing both halves back into the Armiger where his anger can no longer touch them.

He flicks on his flashlight, the familiar weight of a broadsword hung heavy over his shoulder as he makes his way back to the truck.

Maybe Gladio can’t fix all of his mistakes, but he knows a mechanic who can fix this one.

* * *

One step at a time.

A bare hand along the wall, concrete leaching warmth through fingertips.

The first bump in the smooth surface means five paces to the left. A tap of his shoe against splintering wood and Ignis kneels on the packed dirt floor, checking the plants for texture. The fine, soft greenery of the carrot tops rubs between his fingers, fresh and thriving in the cold air.

Lestallum’s tropical climate pervades even during an endless night, but the damp coolness of their makeshift root cellar provides relief from the meteor shard’s heat. Their meager supply of meat and produce lines the walls of a basement on the outskirts of the city center, converted for food storage when the homes stopped getting enough electricity to keep lights on and refrigerators cold. With every errant wire routed to keep the floodlights shining at full-blast, the natural chill below ground keeps the stock from spoil, like the poorer families had on the outskirts of the Wall so many years ago. 

Inventory needs to be taken for the end of another harsh year, numbers tallied and losses counted. Food stock is no simple task; it is a necessity to keep the populations of the remaining outposts properly fed. It is a job to which Ignis devotes his full attention, no room for errant thought.

And yet.

There on his knees in the dirt, away from the sweat and chatter and the incessant humming of the electrical grid—for a second’s respite, Ignis breathes.

His throat catches on mildew and humidity, a tickle to cough out. His lungs fill with moist earth and budding plants, starchy and bitter. Memory pulls his mind to the Citadel gardens mid-afternoon, like it does with every inhale below ground. It’s a torturous exercise. Surrounded by life and growth, of promises and hope. 

Ignis yanks himself away before it can go any further, grabbing a fistful of soil to ground himself in the present. He rips that thought out by the roots before any faces materialize behind scarred eyes, as young and promising as those soft summer flowers.

Something’s on the verge of rot a few paces to his left, one bad apple to spoil the bunch. Ignis gets to his feet and feels his way to the wicker basket, running fingers over one by one until there’s a give in smooth skin. Sickly sweet and caving in, it goes in the trash bin to be taken up and reused for compost. A cycle of dying and growing.

He counts his way to the onions, glossy-paper skin crinkling under his touch. Garlic sits beside them for easy access. He grasps at open air until he feels the waxy, dusty skin of the potatoes, everything he needs for tonight’s supper. His mind is tugged to a camp stove and a helping hand for stirring, a warm campfire and smiling faces. 

His hand grips the handle of his basket until it bites into his palm. He’s missing meat—they’ll need to make another supply run.

Ingredients are gathered. Spoiled food is extricated. Another job is done and it’s time to go up, but Ignis finds himself lingering in the heady air, silence surrounding him like a closed fist.

He stands alone until conversation leaks through the vents, and Ignis tilts his head towards the sound.

“Don’t he need help down there?” A voice says, muffled. “Since he’s—you know.”

“You kidding?” Answers another. “This guy don’t need _nobody’s_ help.”

Ignis chuckles hollowly, a finger pressing into the bruises on his elbows and ribs. He hasn’t used a cane in years, but not for want of its aid.

In the beginning, after Altissia, Ignis would pretend he was just closing his eyes. He told himself that one day he’d open them and the world would be there in vivid color, waiting for him to peek. Sometimes he thinks that that’s what Eos is doing, too. Just closing its eyes until there’s something worth seeing.

And if he never hears Noct’s voice, then at least some day soon, Ignis will see him again.

Fingers glide along the concrete wall, counting divots, and he takes the steps two at a time.

The hatch opens with practiced ease, and he’s never heard a conversation stop so fast.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch the Marshall?” he says to the two stunned Crownsguard, charm dripping. “I believe we’ve an errand to run to Hammerhead.” 

* * *

“That should do it.”

Prompto wipes greasy hands on his jeans, tossing a screwdriver back into his tool pile with a loud clang.

“Thanks again,” says Talcott. “You’re really a whiz at this stuff, huh? Everybody says so.”

“Oh sure,” says Prompto, flashing a crooked smile. “You should’ve seen me back in the day. If you ever need your TV to run on a potato battery, I’m your guy.”

Talcott laughs a little, clicking on the hand-held radio and hearing an optimistic little crackle. They haven’t gotten any responses in half a decade, but they’re always searching for a signal. Just in case. 

“Gotta be ready for any surprise royal decrees,” Prompto says, bumping elbows. 

Talcott presses his lips together to resemble a smile. “I should get back,” he says, apology in his voice.

He turns heel, and Prompto scrambles for any last scrap of conversation.

“H-hey, you got anything else that needs tuning up?” He tries. “Don’t want to get rusty,” he says, voice too bright and too eager. 

“Always something to fix around here,” Talcott says, looking like Prompto’s some abandoned puppy. “Be seeing you.”

Prompto watches him hop in the truck and ride out of the gate. Seems like he’s always staring after headlights cutting through the dark, hoping, just once, that he’ll catch eyes in the rearview. This time, he breathes in the dust kicked up by the tires, resists the urge to cough it out of his lungs.

He hooks one finger through his wristband, stretching the worn fabric. That appointment should have taken a few hours, at least. He’s staring down the barrel of another empty day, and something about that sends cold creeping fingers down his spine, his skin alive with unease.

His mind opens a never-ending to-do list, a fail-safe to fill every second of downtime. 

He’s been meaning to clean his weaponry. It’s been a few years since he tried his hand at hunting, but it can’t hurt to be prepared. He could retune the floodlights so they don’t buzz so loud and keep Cid awake. Could hitch a ride to Lestallum, take any maintenance jobs they’ve got up for grabs.

He could, he should, he might—

His legs take him back to the tiny room inside the garage, four walls closing in on him like the mouth of a cave. His hands reach for his camera in the dim light, fingers working the buttons with too much practiced ease. 

It’s a ritual he wishes he could break.

The display blinks to life, the logo dissolving to a group shot, a familiar ache bleeding through his chest like a stain. There’s the four of them, so bright and content they could be from another world. He flips to the next one, a candid picture of Noct—and the screen winks out. 

Prompto goes very still. His thumb slowly clicks in the button again. There’s a moment of contained panic as he calmly waits for it to turn back on.

It doesn’t.

He lets out a noise, high and pitchy, edging on hysterical. He taps the power button repeatedly, waiting for the glitch to pass. His breath starts coming in short gasps, air trapped in his lungs like a clogged drain, thoughts swirling like dirty water. He scrambles through his toolbox, digging through rusted metal for the set of precision screwdrivers and tiny bolts, hands trembling like they’re holding the hope of Eos. He pops the back off the camera, vision wobbling while his mind races through everything he’s ever learned about wiring and circuitry, and if he can keep the lights of the outpost shining so bright they burn, he can fix a godsdamn camera. Because if he doesn’t, then—

 _“You never stop snapping away, do you?”_ Noct’s voice echoes in his memory, clear as day, and his hands freeze up around his work.

 _“You bet,”_ his own voice answers, sounding dreamy and far away. _“These shots of you will sell for a pretty gil.”_

Noct had laughed, asked, _“Who’s gonna buy them?”_

 _“There’s bound to be some suckers out there,”_ he’d said. And then, softer, _“And if not, well—I’ll still have the memories.”_

Tears are cutting canyons down his cheeks.

He puts down his work in slow-motion, a dull pain spreading through him like a poisoned bite. He slowly snaps the back piece in place, and sets the camera down into his bedside drawer like an artifact in a tomb. 

Fixing this won’t bring him back.

Every memory burns when he gets too close, but he’s still chasing the warmth. Talking about the old days like they’re ever coming back, watching kind faces take on that bitter twist, that pandering pity you give a child in denial. 

Prompto knows why he doesn’t get visitors anymore. 

He’s torturing himself, and everyone else.

If he was here _—no_ , he tells himself. Prompto picks himself off the floor, slapping both cheeks to snap out of it. He grabs his tool set under his arm, a determined set to his jaw. He opens the door, leaving the cold, empty room behind.

Noct _will_ be back. 

But until then, there’s work to do.

* * *

When the truck pulls up to Hammerhead, Gladio’s request to Cid cuts off mid-sentence, sword in his hand nearly slipping to the ground. Red-soled boots hit the pavement and the stone of Gladio’s chest crumbles like some ancient ruin, eroding away to reveal a hope he’d long since buried.

When the engine cuts, the Marshall has to grab Ignis’s arm when his knees buckle under him—but no one has to speak. No announcement has to be made, because in that moment, Ignis knows, inexorably, that there are more senses than just five.

When the door creaks open to torn clothes and messy black hair, the tools in Prompto’s hands clatter to the ground, work forgotten. He doesn’t dare to blink even as his vision goes hot and blurry, because that’s the real thing standing in front of him—more clear and bright than any photograph.

And when the King pads across the cold asphalt and stumbles his way back into their lives, four futures re-entwin to light the sky so bright, you’d swear the dawn had already come.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they all kissed and the sun came up and the game ended. isn't that nice?


End file.
